“We haven’t heard from you in over a year.” There was reproach there that made him feel ten years old again. But there was also relief. His father was glad to see him, and Ilan was shamefully glad for it. He was even more glad to seem them safe in the city away from the dangers on the road, though he shouldn’t care for them more than any other citizen.
Maybe Sandor had been right to accuse him of clinging to the past.
“I’m here on official business,” he said, but guilt quickened his words.
“Clearly,” a lighter voice sighed, and Ilan suppressed a groan as his mother Olga grabbed him from behind with a squeeze. “I was hoping you came because you worried about us, Ilya. You look like death." The possessive grasp of his waist was colored by the long years of terror every time he was sick or injured, which had been often. She was never satisfied until she was practically absorbing her children back into the safety of her skin.
Losing them would do that to a mother.
“I’m just tired. I need to fetch the Izir and his guest. He is in attendance, yes?” There still wasn’t a sign of Mihály’s blasted head, much less Csilla.
The older man inclined his head towards the deeper parts of the house. “They haven’t let him off the dance floor all night. Your mother danced with him.”
She laughed, pearls on her ears and in her fine blonde hair catching the light. “You can’t blame us for wanting some intercession. We could all use more protection now. He even looked at your father’s arm. Which you haven’t asked about.” Her grip tightened with a prick of nails. “They had him back on the front for six months.”
The baron nodded confirmation as Ilan swallowed hard, trying to choke down the pebble of resentment that a man who had already given years of service would be called back for more fighting. “It’s a mess, all of it. I’m lucky to have come out so lightly, starting to think the old boys are....”
“Hush.” Olga clucked her tongue to stop him from finishing. He didn’t need to. Ilan knew well that there were plenty in Saika who thought the west had the right of it and independence would serve them better than the bonds of the church.
“I’ll find the Izir and his guest and take my leave.” He’d stolen enough seconds away from his mission, and if the escape was also an excuse to slip from his parents’ pleading eyes and the strangle of his own feelings, there was no harm in it.
His father caught his arm.
“If you’re going to use my name to enter parties, you could come home once in a while.” His father’s words were true enough to hurt. “The birds need shooting and the horses need riding. Asten lives within our borders too.”
Ilan raised his chin, green homesickness in his lungs. He’d sworn away attachments, wealth, and his family name. But saying you renounce a thing didn’t mean not wanting it; he’d whipped many a priest for the same selfish desire he’d never fully managed to kill at the root.
It was easy to say you didn’t love a thing when it wasn’t right in front of you.
“There is more important work. Even you have to be careful in the city now.” He turned again to his mother, her lake-blue eyes a mirror of his own. “Obey the lockdown orders, and stay away from the Izir.”
Ilan wove through the throng towards the grand room at the rear. He could already see Mihály, a head above most of the crowd, a woman dressed in wine-red in his arms with a drunken blush on her cheeks and decolletage to match. He looked around for any hint of chestnut curls; Csilla was short enough she’d likely sink into the crowd, but if he could grab her without directly talking to Mihály, so much the better.
But no such luck.
“Mihály.” Ilan strode towards him as the music died and grabbed him by the embroidered sleeve the second he let his partner go.
“Ilan?” His eyes darted as if unsure that this wasn’t some prank.
A man pushed into Ilan’s side as he jostled towards Mihály. “Izir, I’ve been waiting.”
“I’ll say a blessing for your family,” he waved him off, taking Ilan by the arm instead. “What are you doing here?”
“Where is Csilla?” He’d keep the conversation as short as he could. From the corner of his eye he could see his mother waiting, poised with the perfect stillness of a hunter with quarry in sight. If he didn’t hurry, he was going to be cornered and hugged again.
“She’s at home. And I’m sure she doesn’t want to see you.” Mihály’s expression became a hairsbreadth more measured. Ilan knew it for what it was now— a quick calculation, gauging which version of himself would get the most favorable result.
Ilan, however, hated every face he had. “She left already?” He’d congratulate her for her good sense, but he also wanted to hit something.
Mihály frowned. “She was never here. She wasn’t feeling well.”
A prickle slid down Ilan’s spine. “That’s not what I was told. If she is here and you just want her to yourself, I need you to think beyond your own ego for a moment. Ágnes is going into anchorage. Csilla should know.”
“Told by who?” The music was starting up again, and with it came people with outstretched hands, reaching for Mihály, asking to be granted the next turn. With a graceless tug Mihály had Ilan on the dance floor. “Talk here, otherwise people will keep interrupting. I’ll let you lead.”
For fuck’s sake. As if they needed this to be more ridiculous. He could smell the brandy on the other man’s breath. “Someone is dying, and you want to dance?”
“Someone’s always dying,” Mihály countered. “Why shouldn’t we dance?”
“I know this might be hard to get through your head,” Ilan said as he yanked Mihály in rough steps that at least effectively kept them from getting run into, and prayed his parents weren’t watching what he did with his years of dancing instruction, “but you owe something to her. Whether you like her or not.”
“You don’t know the first thing about what I owe her...”
Ilan’s heel dug into Mihály’s toes, and though he knew the crack was shoe leather he dearly wished it was bone. The stumble sent them too close to another couple, and Ilan pushed Mihály out of the way, off the floor, with a palm in his ribs to match the verbal jab.
“For the virtues, the one redeeming trait you have is that you seemed to care about the people you served. Or was that a lie, too? You like the worship, not the good that would earn it? And when Csilla asks you to be the least bit accountable, you disappear?”
Mihály’s eyes flashed dark. “I told you she’s sick. I left my mentor with her.”
Well that was comforting.
“And you’re here, drinking and swanning about like there’s nothing else that could possibly require your attention. Is she not even worth the tiniest bit of the power you get your worship from? Whether you like her or not you didn't have to leave her ill.” If there was anything that could crack Ilan's faith, it was this: that Asten had let such a selfish man wield divine power.
There was something stricken in Mihály's gaze, the look of a bird stunned by a sun-blinded collision with a window. The song ended, the last crying violin notes fading among a smattering of applause and rising chatter.
“What’s this?” Madame Varga appeared at Mihály’s shoulder. “Come, Misi, it’s my turn.”
Mihály looked between the woman and Ilan, jaw clamped tight. Ilan’s lip curled.
